


Five Times Elliot Spencer Met Clint Barton (And One Time He Didn’t)

by cyllan



Category: Leverage, Marvel
Genre: No Sex, No Smut, Not Canon Compliant, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:27:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25921318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyllan/pseuds/cyllan
Summary: Leverage/Marvel crossover for Elliot Spencer and Clint Barton (with minor appearances by other characters).
Relationships: Alec Hardison/Parker/Eliot Spencer, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 4
Kudos: 100





	Five Times Elliot Spencer Met Clint Barton (And One Time He Didn’t)

_One_  
“We’re getting cotton candy, right?” the girl’s eyes sparkled as she looked at her boyfriend. “I mean, you can’t go to a carnival without getting cotton candy.”

“And cheese curds,” Elliot promised as he paid for a strip of carnival tickets as long as his arm. “Come on, Amiee, it's your sixteenth birthday. I’ve been planning this for weeks. Terrible food, all the rides, plus I’ll win you the biggest stuffed bear you’ve ever seen.” 

“You’d better,” she laughed, as she took off down the midway.

He chased after her happily and then pulled to a halt in front of the shooting gallery. Elliot called Amiee back as he peeled off two tickets. “What one do you want, darlin’?” he asked, kneeling down to peer through the sights of the battered bb gun. 

Amiee pointed at the large bright purple giraffe. The young man behind the counter, dressed in an equally vivid purple shirt, said, “Going for the big one? Alright; hot stuff. Let’s see what you can do.”

Elliott took a moment, then squeezed off a shot. It went nowhere near the bright yellow star, but it did make a nice “ping!” noise as it rattled off the backstop. Amiee’s eyes narrowed slightly as she looked at the carnie. “What kinda sight do you have on those things?” she asked. “Fun-house mirrors?” 

His answer was interrupted by a series of sharp pops that neatly shredded all five points of the topmost yellow star. Elliot nodded once, then sent one final slug through the middle as the booth operator’s mouth fell open. “Well,” he said, reaching for the giraffe. “That’s a hell of a thing. Your prize, ma’am. Couldn’t have done that neater myself, and that’s saying something.” 

“I’ve been hunting since I was five,” Elliot said. “Good guns, bad ones, they all have a feel to ‘em.” He glanced down at the barker’s hands. “You hunt bow and arrow?” At the older teen’s blink, Elliot grinned. “Your calluses. They’re very distinctive. Got an uncle who’s out all season long, and his hands look just like yours.”

The barker tipped his head towards one of the performance tents with a huge sign proclaiming “HAWKEYE: THE WORLD’S GREATEST MARKSMAN “That’s me,” he said with a diffident shrug. “Come see me in an hour; it’s a hell of a show.

Amiee flipped her hair back over her shoulders and hugged the giraffe close. ”Just enough time to catch a ride and eat myself sick on cotton candy.” Tugging Elliot behind her, she bounced off towards the ferris wheel. 

\-----------------------------------------------

_Two_  
The bar was dimly lit and smelled of spilled beer, stale popcorn and leather, but it was close to the base, and served a surprisingly tasty menu. Elliott had tried sweet-talking the owner into handing over her recipe for pasta carbonara, but she had proved utterly resistant to his charms. Her girlfriend, she who ruled the taps, was less immune, so Elliott got lessons on beer and food pairings from Jennifer while he sat at the bar and drank away memories of home. 

He’d just settled in with his order of tater-tots (topped with crumbled blue cheese and finely diced scallions) and a Guinness when a trio of frat brothers pushed their way through the crowd. They were clearly slumming, leaving their usual haunts for a whiff of ‘danger’ in the rougher side of town. Elliott caught Jennifer’s gaze as she groaned under her breath, but she shook her head firmly at him. “They’ll be fine,” she muttered as the pack of young men headed to the bar. “Just don’t start anything.”

“Darlin’ I’d never start anything,” said Elliott. “Just finish it. Hell, maybe they just want some better food than that slop they were served in their fine uptown establishments.” He didn’t believe it for one second though, and he carefully eased his body into a readied stance. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another man gliding up to the front of the pool tables, hands dancing up and down his queue. He returned Elliott’s gaze calmly and gave a nod. The back of Elliott’s mind sent up a flare of recognition, but he set it aside as the three college boys moved up to the bar.

For a minute there, Elliott thought that maybe they’d dodged trouble. That hope ended when Jennifer plunked down three glasses of Harp, and the oldest curled his lip in disdain. “What the hell sort of swill is this?” he sneered. 

“It’s an Irish lager,” Elliott said as his mouth decided to start the fight the three so clearly wanted. “Pairs well with the mussels or the foot-long hot dog -- if you’re putting the dijon mustard on it.” The trio was staring at him now. “If you’re doing yellow mustard, I’d go with something a bit brighter -- maybe the cider? Or a good glass of riesling?” Behind him, Elliott heard the pool player break into snickers...and the penny dropped just as the leader of the three frat brothers decided to skip bluster and go straight for a roundhouse punch to the head.

It wasn’t a very good punch, Elliott thought as he ducked under it and came up to deliver a set of body-blows. Some other night, maybe he’d have been offended by Hawkeye (WORLD’S GREATEST MARKSMAN) diving into the fight, but tonight? Well, maybe his tater-tots would still be warm. He watched the archer deliver a solid gut-punch to the last college boy standing and frowned. “Didn’t realize you were also a close-quarters specialist.” he said as he offered his hand over the prone and groaning bodies of the fallen men. 

“Carnie,” the archer replied as he accepted the shake. “You learn a lot when drunks start taking offense that they can’t hit a star with a laser site and a targeting system. Add a little training here and there…” He trailed off. “Clint. Clint Barton. We’ve met?”

“Elliott. Few years back -- I won a purple giraffe off ya. Anyway...buy you a beer? Seems the least I can do.”

“Can’t,” said Clint. “I was finishing my last round when they showed. Got to get back before the trucks pull out. Nice to formally meet you though.” He bent down to grab the arms of one of the fallen college kids and slung him up into fireman’s carry with a smooth motion. “I’ll help the bouncers get this one outside. See ya’ round, I’m sure.” And then he was gone, leaving Elliott to narrow his eyes as he turned back to his interrupted dinner.

“Something the matter, hon?” asked Jennifer eventually.

“Yeah..no...maybe? He’s...I’d bet money he’s more than just a carnie.” He popped a tater-tot into his mouth and checked his watch. “Not gonna figure it out tonight, though; not if I’m gonna get back to base on-time.”

“I’ll get you another pint,” said Jen. “When you figure it out, you come back and tell me. Till then, don’t let your tots get cold.”

Elliott chuckled, pushing the oddness of the evening to the back of his mind. “Ma’am, yes ma’am!”

\-----------------------------------------------

_Three_  
The third time Elliott Spencer met Clint Barton was in the middle of a godforsaken jungle. Probably the less said about why he was there in the first place, the better. Uncle Sam had a mission; the orders were dropped, and so was he. If Elliot were being honest, the jungle was probably just fine on its own. It was the gun-runners and warlords who were dragging it into godforsaken territory. 

For once, things had been proceedingly mostly according to plan. They’d managed to get through two of the outer patrol groups with minimal fuss and no alarm. Three miles of hard jungle later, and Elliott was holding up his hand to his squad, demanding utter silence. It wasn’t too hard to get, either, not with that giant thing in the middle of the clearing. 

If he ever had to explain it -- and he hadn’t, not to Parker, not even to Hardison who would have lost his ever-loving mind over it -- Elliott would’ve said it was like someone took a giant jello-mold and bred it with a crystal pyramid. The damned thing quivered like it was breathing.  
It was clearly solid enough. Elliott could make out five of their targets leaning back against the translucent wall of the building like it was the most normal thing in the world. Their casual air was, at least to Elliott, even weirder than the freakish almost-certainly alien building. No one should be so relaxed around something like that.

His orders didn’t say a damned thing about messing with alien tech. They were very clear about what he and his squad were to do, and “find an alien building” was not on that list. He was starting to squirm backwards towards better cover when a damn-it-all distinctive ARROW of all things came whizzing out of a tree to his left and landed, spewing gas, at the base of the alien building.

Then the mission went to hell.

Then he learned how truly effective S.H.I.E.L.D’s field agents could be.

The whole incident is still so classified, Elliot’s pretty sure only Nick Fury and maybe the head of the Senate Intelligence Committee have ever seen his unredacted report of what exactly happened. It hurts him, it really does, to know that he’s got the ultimate Geek Win to pull on Hardison, but he can never actually say, “I killed an alien and helped Hawkeye jump-start its spaceship to send it back into space.” 

Who is he kidding? One day he’s going to totally tell Parker and Hardison what happened; it’s not like those two don’t have more and deeper secrets locked behind their teeth. 

He did once try to claim he was the only one of the team who had ever sung a duet with one of the Avengers, but it turns out Natasha Romanov, when very drunk, loves to sing Russian rock songs, and Parker once stole a Faberge egg from the St. Petersburg museum, and well, said Parker “things just happened from there.” He should know better than to try and win a bet with Parker.

Four  
It was supposed to be a simple retrieval. Get in, get the package, get out -- four hours at the most until he caught sight of a distinctive silhouette heading into the building ahead of him. Without changing his pace, Elliott slid unobtrusively into the next market stall and paused to consider his actions.

If S.H.I.E.L.D was here, this retrieval was heading straight to a handbasket. Moreau had made it crystal clear that he had no interest in showing up on Fury’s radar. S.H.I.E.L.D was a little less concerned about international treaties and borders than the other bureaus, and Elliott was not going to be the one who attracted their attention.

The problem was, Moreau was also very clear about what happened to retrieval specialists who failed in retrieval. Still, Elliott knew Barton’s capabilities and reputation. He also knew that if Hawkeye were here, odds were good the Black Widow was nearby. Elliott wasn’t about to take on both of them - not without more prep than he’d allotted for this mission. He’d have to trust Moreau was at least a little invested in his continued existence; time to abort.

Decision made, he strolled out of the stall and headed down the market towards his exit point. He almost made it. Some fifteen feet short, he felt a hand on his shoulder -- just a soft soft brush -- and he spun around to see the Black Widow gesture towards the coffee bar behind her. “You need to talk.” Her Farsi was impeccable, and she vanished into the crowded market despite all of Elliot’s efforts to track her. After a minute, he swore and headed to the shop where Clint Barton was playing the American Tourist to the hilt. 

“Goddamn it, Barton,” said Elliot as he dropped onto the bench next to Hawkeye. “I know you didn’t see me.”

“Nah,” said Clint as he reached out to pour a tiny cup of coffee for Elliot. “She’s been looking for you for a while. When she spotted you, she gave me a heads up. Thus here we are.”

The coffee was good -- thick and rich -- and Elliot took his time savoring it. That this also gave him a minute to think was mostly just a pleasant side benefit; it was really excellent coffee. Finally he grunted, “so? Talk,” at Barton and sat back on the bench.

“Nothing much,” Clint said easily. “She thinks we should make you an offer. We can get you out.” The man gives Spencer a once-over. Nothing threatening, just an easy assessment and a calm confidence. “We can, you know. I told her you weren’t ready, and that you’d get yourself out when you were, but she thinks you’ll do it faster if you know the lifeline exists. She’s probably right; she usually is.”

Elliot stiffened, and he barely restrained himself from going for the knife tucked under his arm. The simmering fury living in his chest erupted in a low growl, “What the fuck do you mean ‘get me out’ man?”

Barton didn’t so much as flinch. “Out,” he repeated. “I know your boss’ reputation. The only reason we haven’t come after him yet is that he sticks to standard crimes. This one, you can tell him, would have tipped us over that cliff. When he starts messing with alien artifacts, he moves way up on our target list. Truth told, I don’t really care one way or another there. Having an excuse to wipe him off the map would be pretty satisfying. But I’d like you out from under fire before that happens. She would too. So. Out. We’re your lifeline if you need us.”

“I don’t,” Elliot said harshly and started to get up. A hand landed on his shoulder, and he went for it, but it was like grabbing smoke. Natasha Romanov stood right behind him, and he wasn’t going to leave without drawing attention. 

(“Look,” said Hardison years later when Parker had finally pried at least some of this story loose and Elliot was grousing about wanting a rematch. “You got all the training and conditioning the U.S. government was willing to give you, but you started 13 years after she did, and the United States is bound at least a little bit by ethics and morals. So yeah, she’d probably kick your butt. Let it go, man. You can handle being second best.” And yeah, he probably could handle it, but he still wanted to see.)

The Black Widow was wearing a headwrap and long skirts, and while most everyone else seemed to dismiss her with a casual glance, Elliot could feel danger radiating off of her like heat rising from the packed marketplace. He settled back onto the bench, clenching his jaw with frustration. 

In a low voice, Romanov said, ‘He got me out.” She settles herself on the bench, hands up in a gesture that would have looked calming if Elliot hadn’t been mentally tracking how many moves he knew started in that stance and ended with him in the dust. “He got me out, we took care of anyone who tried to follow me, and now…” she trails off with a shrug. “I won’t say the nightmares stop, but I promise it’s better.”

Elliot’s jaw tightened further, “I don’t have nightmares,” 

“You will.”

Barton held up a hand, a casual gesture, but one that still got attention. “Doesn’t matter, Nat. He knows. He’ll take us up on it when he’s ready.” Barton turned to Elliot and slid him a napkin with the address of PO box scrawled on it. “Drop box. When you’re out, you can get us a message there.” 

Elliot looked at the address, slotting it into his memory even as he balled it up and tossed it in the trash. “Sure. Whatever.” This time, when he stood up, they let him go. 

Once he was safely in the air, he called Moreau to let him know what had happened. The conversation was terse, and Elliott knew that it was only a preview of what would happen once he landed. Still, better to give his boss the earliest possible heads-up than to arrive empty handed. Then he sat back in the airplane seat to try and figure out just what the hell he was doing. 

\-----------------------------------------------

_Five_  
Elliot sat tucked up under the bridge listening to the sound of rain hitting concrete. It had been four months since he’d burned his ties with Damien Moreau, and a full month since he’d had to kill someone sent to try and bring him back into the fold. The last one he’d sent back with a clear message: stop bothering me, or all the dirty laundry gets dragged into the light.

The problem was, Damien wasn’t really bothered by his dirty laundry. Why would he be? He had all the money needed to buy his way out of jail, and his own country to issue diplomatic protection when needed. Dropping completely off the grid like this would buy some time, but Elliot needed something more final if he ever wanted to sleep on something other than cardboard again. Goddamn it, he was going to have to write to Barton.

It’s amazing how useful a public library is when you’re homeless or faking homelessness. The next morning, Elliot left the shelter of his bridge and made his way downtown. He took advantage of the public computers there to print out a short note and then charmed a letter and stamp from the librarian behind the counter. Then he went back to the bridge to wait.

Elliot wasn’t convinced that Barton would actually show. Hell, he could be in Afghanistan or Australia or who knows where right now, and be incommunicado to boot. It’s not like Elliot hadn’t been completely out of contact for months before; he knew how missions worked sometimes. He’d resigned himself to another couple of miserable nights under the bridge, and was just settling down when a man came strolling up.

“Barton,” Elliot tipped his head to the man. “Wasn’t expecting you...or that hair..” 

Clint Barton, barely looking like himself with shocking red hair and a full red beard, chuckled. “You’re good. Most folks wouldn’t recognize me behind all this.”

“You’ve a very distinctive walk.” Elliot thought about it for a second before adding, “Mostly because I can’t pinpoint a damned thing about where you trained so it’s not distinctive at all.”

Barton gave a soft ‘huh’. “Guess I should work on that.” 

Elliot watched as Clint flickered through a series of subtle shifts that marked him as everything from former SEAL to Russian mafia and finally settled on ex-CIA. “Goddamn it, Barton, that’s creepy. Impressive as hell, but creepy.”

“Yeah, well. I’m good at having my body do exactly what I tell it.” Clint shrugged. “So, you rang?”

“Yeah.”

After a moment of silence, the archer tilted his head. “You maybe wanna let me in on why?”

Spencer ran a hand through his hair, internally grimacing at the grit he encountered. “Look man, I don’t know what you were offering, but I’m out. Just not sure if I can stay out without some backup.” He paused for a moment. “You and Romanov made it sound like you could help with that. Guess I’m looking to know the price.”

“Not high,” Clint responded. “Maybe help with a mission once or twice. We already know you’ve seen some shit, and sometimes I need someone to help me punch an alien in the face.” The red beard hid Clint’s broad easy grin. “Nat would kill me if I set the price too high. She thinks anyone getting out from under Moreau is a good thing. So, yeah. Come help me punch an alien sometime in the future, and we’ll call it good.”

Elliot considered the offer for a few seconds, then stuck out his hand. “Deal. Need anything else from me right now?”

“Nah,” drawled Clint. “Nat’s already making sure Moreau thinks you’re under S.H.I.E.L.D’s sheltering embrace. If he comes after you after this, well...then we’ll have a reason to be interested in him.”

“Gotta admit, I’d kinda like to see that,” Elliot said.

“Oh, me too. But he’s not that dumb, more’s the pity.” With that, Clint stood up and slipped back out into the rapidly fading twilight. Elliot waited a few minutes for him to be clear, and then packed up. If Natasha Romanov was already at work, there was no reason to hang out under this bridge, and he needed a goddamned shower.

\-----------------------------------------------

_And one time he didn’t_

Victor Dubenich hit the talk button on the burner phone and waited for the connection to go through. It had taken a lot of work to get this number, but this should be the last of his little pieces. Well, and Nathan Ford, but Dubenich was sure that would be a sweet and easy cell.

“Speak.” The man answering the phone had a deep voice with a thick Eastern European accent. 

Victor stumbled just a little bit as he double-checked the name that he had been given. “Boris?” Of course it was a fake name; he wasn’t an idiot. But as long as it was the right fake name…

“Yes.”

“I was told that you could arrange a retrieval specialist.” The executive took a deep breath, trying to contain his excitement. So close now.

“How much?” 

“How...how much what?”  
“How much are you paying?” Boris’ voice was clipped. “How much tells me who to get you.”

That made sense. Of course it made sense. Victor’s nerves settled a little bit more. “Oh. Um, Three hundred thousand. Cash.” 

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then Boris said, “You need Spencer. I’ll text instructions. Wire me $3K, and I will give you contact.” The call cut off.

A few minutes later, a series of text messages came over the line, and Victor sent off the finder’s fee. A few minutes after that, the contact information for one Elliot Spencer showed up. Dubenich took careful note of the fairly straightforward directions, and then went off to his next meeting. He would contact the hitter tonight, and then meet up with Ford this weekend. It was all going perfectly.

On the other side of the cell call, Clint Barton took a swallow of his beer and coughed to clear his throat. Reverting back to his usual flat midwestern accent, he said, “You sure about this one, Nat? Dubenich is a weasel from everything I could tell. You sure this won’t go off the rails?”

Natasha Romanov shrugged once and sipped her cocktail. “If it does, Spencer’s not as good as he needs to be. But it won’t. He needs them, Barton. Or he will once he figures it out. Besides, you know how much I hate losing an asset. Trust me.”

Barton took another swallow. “You know I do, Nat. Let’s watch Spencer steal himself a family.”


End file.
